(this part is not by me for the most part but is by Millie, the Storyteller of the game, and most of the other players. it is useful background though) "Do You Spend ALL your friggin' time following me around?" Millie sputters through gritted teeth at her sire. "Not all, but much of it," Jack's eyes are soft, consoling. His silent companion stands with him again. "Do you wish to know what I have waited so long to tell?" Millie glares down at the sidewalk, "No, not really," she almost chokes on her own words. A child could catch her in such a blunt attempt at deception. "You have hated me for all these years. That is understandable. I have kept something from you for all this time, something that would have made everything so much easier on you. The only condolence I can offer is that it was for the good of the clan," Millie's sire speaks softly. Millie's eyes almost bore holes into the concrete at this statement. "What the heck do I care? A bunch of. kooks," her hands curl up into tight fists. Blood seeps down her palms from fingernails digging in. Her sire smiles, "Oh, I suppose some would say that, though most would disagree. Perhaps it would be best to show you what I mean." "Look Jack, and yes I KNOW that is your real name, I don't have time for this. Word on the street is that there's a conclave, and those things aren't optional, no matter how bad I don't wanna go." Millie starts to stalk away and vanishes from the mind of most creatures on earth; unfortunately not including the one she most wishes would leave her be. Suddenly, above and in front of her, Jack hovers. "Come Millie." The little Malkavian gapes at her sire floating above her. "You liked it before, no?" He smiles. "No way." Millie shakes her head and blinks, "How.?" she is speechless, defeated. She lowers her mental defenses and allows herself to be lifted into the air, the city below like a prison escaped from. Herself, her sire, and the still unknown third party soar silently through the night. An indeterminate time of wonder passes and all three settle to the ground. Millie's eyes are aching pits of confusion. "You want to believe what you suspect." Her sire speaks as Millie looks back again at the ever silent man, peering into his soul and shaking her head. "No, Millie, this is not some trick." "But what about...?" Millie starts, and then stops again in all-encompassing desire to believe what he is obviously telling her. "Your abilities? Such things can be achieved through the arts. And as for the madness discipline, that may well have been caused by severe exposure to the mad clan, as well as their total acceptance of you." He looks at her with such respect and sincerity that she feels her heart might burst. "You have served your clan well so far. Your loyalty and the ties implanted in you from the beginning never wavered, not even for a moment. You are now strong enough to know the truth and to not have it wrested from you." "I." Millie starts with almost joy, then shudders with compulsion. "I must go, to the conclave, I think. I MUST go see Hanson." Her eyes become fixated as she starts to sprint away. With a sudden lurch, the silent stranger tackles her from behind and holds her with a grip like a vice. "For the protection of the clan and those that you hold dear, I am sure you will agree to some protection against coercion, yes?" Her sire asks almost apologizing for having to detain her as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. He looks into her eyes. "Make no sound," he commands. "We will deliver you to the conclave." She struggles violently. The lighter flicks once to create a fairly large blue flame. Her head is forced back and held in an iron lock. Terror. The Red Fear. Vertebrae in Millie's neck snap in her attempt to escape the flame in her face. Her lids are pried open. Her last vision is of blue flame turning red with her own fear and blood as her eyes are burned from her head. "For the good of the clan, Millie. For the good of the clan." The Prince and the Justicar stand behind a large semicircular desk at the end of the large conference room. Lucille and the Club Manager stand to either side of the Prince, just behind him. The Justicar Marcelle is flanked by an Archon on either side. The details of the deaths are described. In the case of Joseph Tudor, it was obvious that his house had been thoroughly stocked with flammable materials, hence causing the mass destruction there. In the case of Rebecca Martin, there was no actual large-scale damage to the Victoriana Manors. Around the room, the Justicar questions each kindred in turn. "*Tell* me *all* that you know of these incidents concerning Rebecca Martin and Joseph Tudor." His eyes meet each kindred's in turn. Hanson Blake re-iterates the command. Many kindred grasp for any tenuous details and rumors they may have heard in groveling attempts to comply under the combined weight of the presence and domination used. Millie's answers the Prince from the center of the room, wHo squeezing her hand. She shudders and cringes, her voice shaking as she speaks. The large room quiets in order to hear the meek voice. "I... I bricked up Joseph's house." Her hands clench, wHo wincing before she relaxes the hand she holds his in. She glances at him and pouts apolitically before continuing. "But I did not know about the fire until after it happened." Her voice is plaintive. "Tell us why you bricked up his house," The Prince commands, his charisma flooding the room causing all eye to turn to Millie, pressuring her to answer. "I thought it would be funny," she almost starts to sob. "He's such a big meanie," she covers her mouth at the slip of dislike for the victim. Several rabble-rousers dare to smirk in appreciation at the Malkavian. wHo pipes up, "I helped too!" he announces with almost triumph. Millie's head snaps over to his direction, her body shaking with fear. "He was just helping me. It was all my idea." One Archon nods at the statement and whispers in the Justicar's ear. Millie continues, "I don't know how or why Rebecca got killed," she looks down in remorse. "I will miss her." The Justicar nods, looking to the next kindred to question. Kalista watched the innocent Malkavelians reply, her face set in grim lines, hoping they would not be judged too harshly for they're follies. She was sure they had not expected the extreme consiquences that their prank had caused. Standing her ground, she tried to keep her voice from shaking with the attack of powers she knew she was under. "I have been gone for the last week and a half, home, in Canada. I spoke with no one, so there is no one who can vouch for my whereabouts, but I had no knowledge of this until I made my way back into the city. And found a nice little invitation in my mail. I'm afraid I have no information." The Prince nods, and his eyes soften. "Thank you Kalista. We are happy to have you back in the city." He and the Justicar focus on the next kindred to question. Bryon stole several glances at both Lucille and the kindred he had not yet met before, as the Justicar closed in on his position. The questions were like a barrage to his ears, as all eyes fell on him. "No... no. First of all I want to say I knew neither of the victims in this case except by name. I first heard about the fire at ms. Martin's through the Dallas Morning News, where I used to work, because I was looking for... information... but I didn't know she was one of us. I just sent the message to ms. Semingsworth... I hardly knew why." He swallowed, trying feverishly to come up with something to make them go away. "I don't know anything about the Tremere... except that he had a lot of enemies." He shot a glance at the two malkavians in the corner, who had already been questioned. "Try asking their Primogen." He felt sick to his stomach, and closed his eyes, to hide from himself more than anyone else.. The Ventrue stood motionless, relaxed under the domination and presence as she allowed the user to simply control her...she knew better than to resist a Cainite of the generation. Or even the 7th, for that matter. "Yes, Justicar Marcelle..." She continued to answer questions aloud that were posed in mental communique, until the interrogation was completed. Then, with a polite nod to the Justicar, the Archons, and the Prince, Lucille stepped to the side and back into place. Sally hated this. They had been watching her all night, and now she had to step forward. The Justicar's inhuman gaze at least saved her the need to look about at everyone else's sneering stares. "I'm sorry, sir...I didn't know either of them well, and I haven't been at the Elysium in some time." The chorus of derisive, humiliating chuckles forced blood tears up to the surface of her eyes as she continued. All she wanted to do was leave them to their petty little games and forget they ever existed. But there they were, with no end to their snickering. Marcelle tore his gaze away long enough to join Lucille, the Club Manager, and the prince in staring everyone into silence before turning his gaze back. "Yes sir, I've been banished from the Elysium." Her answers droned on, the interrogation lasting seemingly forever, heralding more snickering, and even a well-placed remark from the crowd before the ordeal was finally complete with a simple nod of the Justicar's head as he turned to the next vamp. Even then, she was not allowed to leave. This was going to be a very long night. Lilly wiped her tongue across her teeth, very quietly drawing it in and making a sucking motion like she used to do in grade school. It would drive those crones mad when they heard the sound of smacking lips but could not know where it came from. She barely chuckled in her amusement, although she glanced at the poor girl being questioned. Behind the tinted lens of her sunglasses, she could almost see herself standing there, forced to maintain a semblance of control when inwardly she panicked. Lilly could almost see the oranges rolling around the girl's feet, but the apparition disappeared. "Tell me about the oranges, Lilly," she heard the Prince say, but when she looked up, he was still questioning the young girl. Lilly used her thumb to pop the nuckles of one hand while she stood there, and it woke her up again. The mention of the fire brought the smell of burning flesh and ash, and she calmly scratched her nose to clear it away. Hidden beneath the fabric of her shirt, a few drops of blood oozed from her hand. Lilly stood there quiet, seemingly relaxed under the questioning Prince and Justicar. She watched as the younger ones cringed and tried to look poised and controlled, but failed miserably. A smooth grin appeared on her lips while she watched. At the mention of fire and ash, she rubbed the back of her right hand, massaged it, scratched it as if it were itching. Then, she looked up and folded her arms to watch the trial. She glimpsed her watch and hoped that he would call on her soon. Her flight was going to leave in two hours. Dee listened quietly to the droning of voices answering questions around her. Soon they'd get to her, and she didn't care. She never gave a rat's ass about Tudor, or Rebecca for that matter. She hoped the creepy old bastard was truly ashes, though the nagging teeth gnawing at her gut warned her not to trust that hope too quickly. She frowned to herself when she heard Lucille mention the hunter, Jerry, and Patience. She'd have to set that record straight, backed up by Jerry. Finally she looked up into eyes like stones, reflecting nothing yet boring into her as if her pathetic secrets could be of any importance to anyone but her and the memories of her own dead. She met the stony gazes calmly, even smiling a little. "If I thought somebody had really killed Tudor I'd shake their hand, but frankly, I doubt the old bastard is even dead. The thing with Rebecca gives me the creeps, though. Reminds me of something I ran into when I was trying to find out what happened to Ryk and his organization and found a dominated lackey at the bottom of the shitpile and not a trace of anything else. As for the hunter, I doubt it's Jerry's--that one had a different MO. Jerry started the fire at his place himself if I remember right. The hunter had preferred to leave a staked, headless, scorched corpse as a calling card, a warning or something. Maybe he has powerful friends, though. I don't know." Crossing her arms over her chest, Dee stared up at the bigwigs awaiting any further questions, hoping they'd had enough of her opinions. She was more interested in what she didn't know, something that somebody else here did. This was almost fun, she thought, unless of course whoever had killed the Prince's own Seneschal decided the acting Brujah Primogen should be next. Bastian watched the gathering with seething contempt. His mind tried to seize on a rational explanation for his actions. This failure was intolerable - it disgusted him to the core of his being. He watched the circling vultures warily, flicking from one face to the next. Again. Passed over again. His anxiety crept to new levels with every passing moment. Almost as a reflex action, blood burned in his veins, readying for fight or flight. The girl-childe was near, the Club Managers protégé. He was almost positive he could invigorate himself with her vitae, if he moved fast enough. The atmosphere in the conclave is as harsh and dead as it's attendants. A mortal walking in would flee this eerie silence, the lack of breathing and the awesome spectacle of the variety of monsters, like some alien zoo. Many neonates have red streaked faces, broken down under the weight of the inquisitors. The pattern of questioning seems chaotic, though the idea is unfathomable. There is much method in this. Sebastian Thorne stands with stoic calm near the center of the room. He smiles and nods in respect as other kindred look his way. Each time his is apparently skipped over for another kindred, one can see a twitch of his jaw. As the night progresses, some of the more sensitive kindred seem to drift away from his vicinity. He dexterously takes out a gold razor and flips it through his knuckles with precision. When it is at last his turn to be questioned, he is nearly alone in the center of the conclave. Some kindred almost show disgust, as Bastian is the last of those present to be questioned and no culprit has been found. Flashing gold, one second visible, gone the next - the razor slipped between his fingers in a blur of rising panic, though his face remained pleasing passive. Bastian measured the steps between himself and Lilly with subtle craft as the quartet of calamity approached. His expression remained congenial, concerned almost as he clenched his fingers, embedding the razor in his palm. The two archons, the Justicar, and the Prince face Mr. Thorne. "Tell all that you know of these incidents," the Prince commands without waiting for the Justicar. Hanson Blake's eyes are terrifying, a striking contrast to his casual posture. Sebastian's jaw twitches again. Marcelle seems about to reiterate the question when Bastian answers, "I believed Rebecca to be a weak link in the city's political structure. Eric was a tool. I," Once more, his jaw twitches. Bastian becomes a blur of motion, flying at the nearest kindred - the childe of the Club Manager. With inhuman strength, he ferociously wrests her to the ground gouging out a huge chunk from her neck. The incident is barely begun as a stake appears protruding from Bastian's back. The Club Manager is in the midst of the scene at the next moment attending to his childe. The Justicar addresses the assembly as Bastian is removed from the floor and taken away with several kindred and the Prince. "There was evidence of Mr. Thorne's involvement both on camera and in from the youth's who were manipulated to perform these acts." A projection of what looks to be Bastian is displayed on a large wall behind the Justicar. "This image and others like it were taken at various times from inside the Victoriana Manors. The youths who started fires at the Victoriana Manors and at Joseph Tudor's estate described in some detail Mr. Thorne's appearance. This evidence is not enough, however. It was necessary to gather his allies, if he had any, and to judge his reactions and confessions before a conclave." The Justicar pauses, his demeanor rising majestically, causing all eyes to fall on him. "He will be interrogated further, as will his retainers, but it is my conclusion that Sebastian Thorne, acting without kindred allies, arranged the murder of Rebecca Martin." Hanson escorts Joseph into the conclave, his disheveled suit darkened with smoke. Standing now in the center of the room, he faces his accusers looking somewhat cowed under the strain. "Joseph was found and detained on the night following the incidents," Marcelle explains to the gather. "He has been thoroughly interrogated and held in custody, with all evidence kept from him so that this council's findings would not be tampered with. In order to make the situation clear to everyone, it was decided that he would confess before the kindred of the city as well." The Justicar then nods to Joseph with a hint of respect and commands him, "Tell all that you know concerning the events in question." Joseph nods, taking a brief moment to compose himself, "I had been living in the same house for 36 years and it was time that I relocated. I was in the process of moving when I discovered the plan of the Malkavian prank, but I decided not to act against then. I suppose one might say I was 'pranking' the Malkavians," Joseph comments dryly. "I was hoping that their antics would give them a vent that I may move my residence in peace, and in secrecy. The burning of my house was almost surely to cause confusion. As you know," Joseph addresses the Justicar and the Prince, "I was found emerging from my escape tunnel the night after the incident where I was apprehended by the Prince's enforcers. I am fortunate to have a ritual that allows me to awaken for a brief time during the day, enough time to reach my escape tunnel should a disturbance like this occur." Joseph frowns, then corrects his countenance, "Pardon my display, I do not like spreading knowledge of such powers. "I did converse with Sebastian Thorne," Joseph scans the room, looking for Mr. Thorne. Not finding him, he continues. "I discussed with him the issues I had with Rebecca Martin, that she was not well suited to be the Seneschal. I had put forth that I thought there were several others better qualified such as myself, Victoria, and perhaps even Bastian himself. He seemed quite taken with my views on the subject. I have not spoken with nor seen Rebecca Martin since the last Primogen meeting. I have not seen her outside of the Prince's offices for almost a year." Joseph pauses, seeming to regain his normal self-confidence. "I did have certain plans in place for Rebecca Martin. I was grooming several future ghouls for her based on her tastes in mortal companions. I was hoping to eventually remove Eric and replace him with one of my plants to use as a spy in her court," Joseph looks almost wistful as another plot fails to reach fruition. "It is but another plan that shall never come to pass," his aspect again turns resolute. "I do not apologize for speaking my mind to her clansmen. The Prince would of course take her council over mine in this matter, and I doubt very seriously she would have seen my views on the subject." Joseph scans the room once more. "It seems, however, that his reactions were far and away more than I had intended. Indeed Mr. Thorne was driven, as I had suspected, but his tactics are unforgivable." The Prince nods grimly. "That will be all, Tudor." He then addresses Lucille Semingsworth. "The retainers of Mr. Thorne are on their way now. As they were retainers of the clan, I leave it to you to decide their fate after they have been questioned." The Prince glances with fury in the direction where Bastian is being held, then looks up to the Justicar. Mason looks stricken. "Miss Semingsworth... please... " She feels empathy toward Mr. Thorne's ghouls; after all, they are like cousins, in the same relation to another of her own employer's clan. She whispers, "It wasn't their fault..." Tears form in the corners of her eyes as she imagines how she would feel if she saw Lucille taken as Bastian has been. "Couldn't we question them in private... give them a chance to... to mourn?" One tear falls, silently. Lucille watched Mason impassively, though she nodded to her servitor almost imperceptibly in agreement. Marcelle's voice and presence rises, "The judgment has been made. The Prince and his staff will conduct the further interrogations. This conclave is adjourned."